Judith awoke with a bewildering sensation of guilt and need of action. What had happened? What had she done that she ought not to have done?—or was it something that she ought to? Memory struggled back to her dimly, then flashed upon her in sudden clearness.
She had taken a school of mackerel—that was what she had done that was praiseworthy. She had left them down there in the old black dory, undressed and unpacked—that was the thing she ought not to have done. That was the awful thing! For if they were not dressed and packed at once—
“Oh, I shall lose them! I shall lose them!” moaned poor Judith, sitting up in bed and wringing her hands in the keenness of her distress. “How could I have let myself fall asleep! How could I have slept all this time like a log!”
It was very dark, so it must be midnight or later. There was no light anywhere, on land or sea, or in Judith’s troubled soul. To her remorseful mind all her terrible labor and strain of body had been in vain; she had gone to sleep and spoiled everything, everything!
Judith had never been so utterly tired out as when she went to sleep; she had never been so tired as she was now. She felt lame in every joint and muscle of her body. But her conscience stood up before her in the dark and arraigned her with pitiless, scathing scorn.
“Well, aren’t you ashamed of yourself? See what you’ve done! All those beautiful fish lost, when you might have saved them—just by staying awake and attending to them. A little thing like that! And you worked so hard to get them—I was proud of you for that. Ah-h, but I’m ashamed of you now!”
“Don’t! don’t—you hurt!” sighed Judith, “I’ll get up now, this minute, and go down there. Don’t you see me getting up? I’ve got one shoe on now.”
Judith was not experienced in the dressing of many fish at a time and the packing of them in barrels for market. At sixteen, how can one be—and one a girl? But she knew in a rather indefinite way the importance of having it done promptly. She remembered father’s and the boys’ last school of fish—how she had hurried down to the shore and watched the dory come creeping heavily in, how the boys had cheered, as they came, how father had let her help at the dressing, and mother had brought down hot coffee for them all and then “fallen to,” herself and worked like a man. How they all had worked to get the barrels packed full of the shining layers in time for the steamer next morning!
All this Judith remembered as she crept silently away through the darkness and turned toward the salty spray that the wind tossed in her face. That had been a phenomenally large school of mackerel—eighteen barrels for market in the distant city. Judith was not quite sure, but she thought the check that came back to father had been for a hundred and fifty dollars. Mackerel had been in great demand then. A hundred and fifty dollars! Judith stopped short and caught her breath.
“But my school was just a little one,” she thought, “and maybe people aren’t very mackerel hungry now.” Still, a hundred dollars—or even fifty—fifty dollars would go so far toward that doctor across the sea! Supposing she had lost fifty dollars! She hurried on through the black night, not knowing what she should do when she got to her destination, but eager to do something. The lantern she carried cast a small glimmer into the great dark.
Judith was not afraid—how long had it been since she was afraid of the dark? But a distant thrill shot through her when she saw another faint glimmer ahead of her. Then it seemed to divide into two glimmers—they blinked at her like evil eyes. They were straight ahead; she was going toward them! She must go toward them if she went to the old dory drawn up on the beach.
“And I’m goin!” Judy said defiantly. “Blink away, you old bad-y two-eyes! Wait till I get there and fix you!” It helped to laugh a little and nod defiance at the blinking eyes.
The salty spray increased to a gentle rain, buffeting her cheeks. The steady boom of the breakers was in her ears like the familiar voice of a friend. Judith tramped on resolutely.
The lights were two lanterns, sheltered from the wind, beside the old black dory. Judith came upon them and cried out in astonishment. For she had come upon something else—a boy, dressing fish as if his life depended on it!
“Jemmy Three!” she ejaculated shrilly.
The boy neither turned about nor stopped.
“Hullo! That you, Jude? Got a lantern? Take that knife there an’ go to work like chain lightnin’. I’ve filled two barrels—there isn’t any time to lose, now, I tell you! Steamer’s due at seven.”
“But—but—I don’t understand—” faltered Judith.
“Well, you needn’t, till you get plenty o’ time. Understandin’ don’t dress no fish.” Jemmy Three, like Jem One, had missed his rightful share of schooling. “What we got to do now is dress fish.”
Judith went to work obediently, but the wonder went on in her mind. What did it all mean? How had Jemmy Three found out about the mackerel? Why was he down here in the dead of night dressing and packing them?
By and by the boy saw fit to explain in little jerks over his shoulder. Judith pieced them together into a strange, beautiful story that made her throat throb.
“Saw you had a load here—saw ’twas mackerel—knew they’d got to be ’tended to—’tended to ’em,” Jemmy Three slung over his shoulder, as he worked.
“Suspicioned you’d struck a school, and gone home clean tuckered. Oh, but you’re a smart one, Jude! Couldn’t no other girl ’a’ done it, sir, this side o’ the Atlantic!”
He caught up the dressed fish and bent over a fresh barrel; his voice sounded muffled and hollow to Judith.
“Knew there weren’t no time to spare—nobody hereabouts to help out—went at it myself all flyin’,—been down here since seven o’clock.”
“Oh, Jemmy!” Judith trembled. The throb in her throat hurt her. “What time is it now?” she asked.
A grunt issued from the barrel depths. “Time! Ain’t any time now! I told you we’d got to fly!”
It was almost twelve. They worked on, for the most part silently, until daylight began to redden the east. One barrel after another was headed up by Jemmy Three’s tireless hands. Judith counted barrels mechanically as she toiled.
“Four!” she cried. Then, “Five!” “Six!”
“There’ll be a good eight—you see,” Jem Three said, rolling a new one into position. “You’ll get a good fifty dollars, Jude; see if you don’t! How’s that for one haul? Ain’t any other girl could ’a’ done it!”
“Oh, don’t!” sobbed Judith suddenly. She let a little silver fellow slip to the ground, half-dressed, and went over to Jemmy Three.
“Don’t say another word—don’t dress another fish—don’t move till I tell you!” she cried. “I cant’t stand it another minute! I—I thought you helped yourself to my lobsters—I thought I thought it. And you’ve been here all night working for me—”
“Oh!” cried Jemmy Three softly. But he did not stop working.
“I thought that was why there were only three yesterday—I thought there’d have been fifty to-day,” ran on Judith. The new daylight lighted her ashamed face redly, like a blush.
“There wouldn’t ’a’ been but five—” said Jemmy Three, then caught himself up in confusion. The blush was on his face now.
Judith’s cry rang out above the sea-talk. “Then you put some in! ” she cried, “instead of helping yourself. You put some in my traps, Jemmy Three—that’s what you did! You put in twelve! ”
“Guess there’s somethin’ the matter with your traps, Jude,” muttered the boy. “Guess they better be overhauled—guess a fellow’s gotter right to go shares, ain’t he?”
“Jemmy Three, I’m going to hug you!”
“Oh, oh—say, look out; I’m all scales!”
“I had scales on my eyes, but they’ve fallen off now,” laughed the girl tremulously. “It’s worse to have scales on your eyes than all over the rest o’ you. I can see things as plain as day now, and—and—you look perfectly beautiful!”
“Hold on—I’m dressin’ fish! The steamer’s due at seven—”
“I don’t care if she’s due this minute, I’ve got to talk! If she was in plain sight—if I could see her smokestack—I should have to talk. I tell you I can see now, and you look splendid—splendid, and I look like a little black—blot. To think of my being up home asleep, and you working down here, dressing my fish—and me thinking those mean thoughts of you! It makes me so ashamed I cant’t hold my kn-knife.”
Judith was crying now in good earnest. She had sunk down on the sand, and her crouching figure with the red glow from the east upon it looked oddly childish and small. Jemmy Three saw it over his shoulder.
“Look a-here, Judy,” he said gently, dropping his own knife and going over to the rocking, sobbing figure. “You look a-here, I tell you! What you cryin’ for, with eight barrels o’ fish ’most packed an’ a good fifty dollars ’most in your pocket? You better laugh! Come on, get up, and let’s give a rouser! Three cheers for the only girl in the land o’ the free an’ the home o’ the brave that darst tackle a school o’ mack’rel alone! Hip, hip—”
“Jemmy, Jemmy, don’t!”
“ Hooray! Now let’s dress fish. You’re all right—don’t you worry about bein’ a blot, when I tell you you’re a reg’lar brick! I’m proud o’ you!”
It was the longest speech Jemmy Three had ever made, and the peroration surprised himself as much as it did Judith. He put up his hand and cleared something away from his eyes—it couldn’t have been scales, for he left the scales there.
At five mother came hurrying down to find Judith. The scale-strewn beach and the scale-strewn children, the barrels in orderly rows waiting to be rolled to the little landing-place of the steamer, the heap of clumsy wet netting—all told her the whole astonishing story. And what they did not tell, Judith supplemented eagerly.
“I declare! I declare!” gasped mother in mingled pride and pity, “you two poor things, putting in like this! You’ll be tired to death—you’ll be sick abed!”
“Guess we’ll weather it,” nodded Jemmy Three, working steadily. “But if you think we ain’t hungry enough to eat a pine shing—”
“I’ll go right home and boil some coffee and eggs and bring ’em down, and then I’ll go to work, too,” cried mother energetically. “You poor starved things!”
After a salt toilet in the surf, they ate a hurried breakfast with keen relish. Judith had forgotten her aching joints and lame muscles, and Jemmy Three had forgotten his sleepless night. Victory lay just ahead of them, and who cared for muscles or sleep!
“This is the best bread ’n’ butter I ever ate,” said Judith between bites.
There proved to be the “good eight” barrels, when they were done, and they were done by six o’clock, or a very little after. By half-past six, the barrels had been rolled down the slope of the beach to the little wharf not far away. Then the tired two rested, and remembered muscles and sleep.
They dropped in the soft, moist sand and rubbed their aching arms.
“I’m proud o’ you, Jemmy!” Judith said shyly, and looked away over the water. Her repentance had come back and lay heavily on her heart. She longed unutterably to recall those evil thoughts—to have another chance out there beyond to summon Jemmy Three with the little shrill old signal. How she would send it shrilling forth now!
“Jemmy,” she said slowly, as they waited, “you know our signal, don’t you? The one we used to practice so much.”
For answer Jemmy Three pursed his lips and sent out a clear “carrying” cry.
“Well, I wish—don’t you know what I wish?”
“’Twas Christmas,” Jemmy said flippantly, but he knew. He dug his bare toes in the sand—a sign of embarrassment.
“I wish I’d called you out there at the school!” lamented Judith, “even if you couldn’t have heard. I wish—I wish—I wish I’d called! If I ever strike another school—Jemmy, I’d give you half o’ this one if I dared to. But I’m afraid to have Blossom wait—I don’t dare to!”
“O’ course not,” agreed Jem Three vaguely. He did not at all know what Judith meant. Girls had queer ways of beginnin’ things in the middle like that. No knowin’ what a girl was drivin’ at, half the time!
“Jemmy—say—”
“What say? Ain’t that smoke out there?”
“No, it’s a cloud. Jemmy Three, I’m going to tell you something. I want to. I’m going to tell you what that money’s going to do—you’re listening, aren’t you?”
“With both ears—go ahead.”
“Well—oh, it’s going to be something so beautiful, Jemmy! I never knew till day before yesterday that you could do anything so beautiful—I mean that anybody could. I never dreamed it! But you can—somebody can! There’s a man can, Jemmy! All you need is money to take you across to him and—there’s the money!” waving her hand toward the rows of barrels. Her eyes were shining like twin stars. She had forgotten aches and lameness again.
“I told Uncle Jem,” she went on rapidly, while Jem Three gazed at her in puzzled wonder and thought more things about girls. “He told me to go down to the hotel and ask that other little girl’s mother, and I meant to go last night! But I went to sleep last night! So I’m going to-day—I’m going to ask her to tell me just exactly how to do it.”
“Do what?” inquired Jem Three quietly. That was the only way to do with girls—pull ’em up smart, like that!
“Mercy! Haven’t I told you?” cried Judith. “Well, then—Jemmy, if you were a little mite of a thing—a Blossom, say—and a fairy came to you and said, ‘Wish a wish, my dear; what would you rather have in all the world?’ what would you answer, Jemmy? Remember, if you were a little mite of a Blossom with a—with a—little broken stem.” Judith’s voice sank to a tender softness. She didn’t know she was “making poetry.”
The boy with his toes deep in the sand was visibly embarrassed. Whatever poetry lay soul-deep within him, there was none he could call to his lips.
“Wouldn’t you answer her, ‘Legs to walk with’?” went on the girl beside him softly. “You know you would, Jemmy! I would—everybody would. You’d say, ‘The beautifulest thing in the world would be to walk —dear fairy, I want to walk so much!’ And then supposing—are you supposing?—the fairy waved her wand over you and you— walked! Do you know what you’d say then? I know—you’d say, ‘See me! Judy, see me! Jemmy, everybody, see me!’”
Judith laughed to herself under her breath. The twin stars in her eyes shone even a little brighter.
“The fairy’s a great doctor—he’s across there, ’way, ’way out of sight. He’s going to wave his wand over Blossom. He waved it over another little broken girl, and she walked. I saw her. She said, ‘See me!’—I heard her. That’s what the money is going to do, Jemmy.”
“Gee!” breathed Jemmy softly. It was his way of making poetry.
“And you see, I don’t dare to wait—I’m afraid something might happen to that doctor.”
“O’ course!—you go down there all flyin’ an’ see that woman, Jude.”
And that afternoon Judith went. It was to Mrs. Ben she went first; she felt acquainted with Mrs. Ben.
“Can I see—I’d like to see that mother whose little girl can walk,” Judith said eagerly.
“Land!” ejaculated Mrs. Ben.
“I mean,” explained Judith, smiling, “whose little girl was lame and a doctor made her walk by waving his wa—I mean by—by curing her. I heard her telling another mother. I’d like to see—do you suppose I could see that lady?”
“I guess I know who you mean—there ain’t been but one little girl here lately,” Mrs. Ben said. “But there ain’t any now. They’ve gone away.”